Bit of a Domestic
by kissmyathos
Summary: D'Artagnan has an interesting morning and needs a helping hand. Set sometime during season 1. (Written before I started collecting everything as chapters in "Baptisms of Fire.")


D'Artagnan walked through the front gate of the garrison, arms crossed casually, his right hand streaked with blood where it gripped his left arm just above the elbow. He'd made it through the streets of Paris without anyone noticing that he was bleeding, or at least without commenting. As he'd thought, he wasn't going to get far inside the compound with the same anonymity: Porthos sat at the table, eating breakfast, and Aramis stood nearby, attempting to juggle three apples. As soon as he got a good rhythm, Porthos plucked one of the apples from the air and took a bite. Aramis fumbled the other two, and one landed in the mud, one on the table.

"Don't you—" Aramis began, then noticed D'Artagnan. His eyebrows went up. "You've had an interesting morning."

"Something like that," D'Artagnan admitted.

"Finally tried to kiss Madame Bonacieux?"

"What? No, nothing like that. She's a married woman, Aramis."

Porthos swallowed his bite of apple. "What happened, then? Even Aramis doesn't usually get stabbed before breakfast."

"I'm usually well away before breakfast," Aramis pointed out. He waved D'Artagnan closer. "Come on, let's see."

D'Artagnan let Aramis support his elbow and, with some difficulty, peeled his cramping fingers from the wound as he spoke. "I was on my way here when I heard a fight coming from the corner house on Rue — ow! — on Rue Marche. A man's voice and a woman's voice, shouting that they'd kill the other one, he was fat and lazy, she was a witch and a harpy. It's not the time I've heard a commotion from them. But then I heard something shatter."

"Mmm," said Porthos. "and you thought you'd better interfere."

"No, just... see if everything was all right," D'Artagnan corrected. Porthos chuckled.

Aramis gave D'Artagnan his arm back and said, "This wants a bit of needlework. Come on, you can finish the harrowing tale in my room."

D'Artagnan looked at the oozing cut skeptically. "Are you sure you're not just looking to practice your embroidery on me? It's not that deep."

Porthos stood, too, saying, "It's where the wound is. That's an elbow, elbows move a lot, so Aramis gets to take out his sewing basket. At least, that's what he keeps telling me."

D'Artagnan followed them inside. "Where's Athos?"

"Sleeping it off," Porthos grunted. No need to ask what "it" was.

"If we don't see him by lunch, we'll send Porthos with a bucket of water," said Aramis.

"That seems a bit... harsh?"

"Athos wakes up punching if you shake him," Porthos explained, "you want to be out of arm's reach. Plus the first thing he does is stick his head in a bucket anyway, so, really, I'm just helping him get his day started."

D'Artagnan took a moment to appreciate that they had never sent him, all unsuspecting, to rouse Athos. He also stored the idea away for the next batch of recruits.

Aramis unlatched his door and gestured them inside. He'd improved on the standard-issue furniture, adding a bookshelf and a few paintings on the walls, and a second chair at the desk. He waved D'Artagnan into it, and Porthos sat on the bed, which creaked under his weight. He bounced experimentally and got more creaks.

"If you break it, I'm moving in with you," Aramis warned, taking his leather kit and a roll of linen bandage from the shelf.

"Joke's on you, my friend — I snore."

Aramis laughed and sat on the other desk chair. He unrolled the kit to display his modest collection of forceps, needles, and small, oddly-shaped knives. From a belt pouch he took his trusty bottle of _aqua vita_ and a handkerchief, while D'Artagnan hiked his sleeve up past the elbow and put his arm on the desk, one eye on Aramis' collection of needles. Some were curved, some hooked at the end, and there was a straight one that looked about the size of a goose quill.

Aramis wiped the wetted handkerchief down his arm, turning the wound into a line of fire. "A clean cut," he observed. "Come on, now, you were about to tell us that you did something stupid." He set the handkerchief aside and took a coil of some thin white fiber from the kit.

D'Artagnan sighed. "I knocked. She answered, but she was still shouting at him over her shoulder... and waving around a broken bottle. I asked if everything was all right, and she said 'yes,' threw the bottle at my head — that's when this happened — and slammed the door. So I, uh, I yanked it open again, to tell her that it was rude to throw things."

Porthos whistled.

"I knew the moment I saw you that you were mad enough to be a musketeer," said Aramis, threading one of the smaller, hooked needles. He met D'Artagnan's eyes and asked seriously, "Do you want Porthos to brace you? You've seen what we have to do to him."

"I heard that," Porthos muttered.

D'Artagnan shook his head. "No, I'll be fine." It had been years since a bit of needlework made him throw up... Well, at least a year. Maybe almost two.

Aramis took the back of D'Artagnan's arm in a firm, practiced grip, and D'Artagnan tamped down the martial reflex to stand and pull him off-balance. Instead, he asked, "Porthos, do I remember some story about you wielding a broken bottle in a melee?"

He felt the first bite of the needle and kept his eyes on Porthos.

"First big fight I was ever in. I must have been about twelve," Porthos said fondly, leaning back against the wall and causing another alarming squeal from the bedframe.

"You made it all the way to twelve?" The needle bit again.

"I said 'big fight,'" Porthos reminded him, "and I have high standards."

D'Artagnan couldn't help himself: he glanced down and saw Aramis tying the first knot, pulling the thread tight until the gapping edges of his skin met. D'Artagnan's stomach lurched and he took a deep, slow breath through his nose.

"And after your etiqette lesson, did she have anything to say for herself?" Aramis asked, cutting off the stitch.

D'Artagnan struggled to pick up his story as the room began to spin gently. "Yes... a few words."

Aramis looked at him appraisingly and raised one eyebrow. "Mmm, I still think you tried to kiss Madame Bonacieux and she got you with a pair of scissors."

"What — no!" D'Artagnan said firmly. Aramis' fingers tightened around his arm, stopping him from recoiling. "You really need to get your mind out of the gutter. We're friends, and she's my landlady. My married landlady. Whom I respect. And she would absolutely try to stab me if I took liberties, which I actually like about her. Because are are friends," he added when Porthos took a breath to speak, pointing emphatically with his good hand. Porthos closed his mouth.

Then he felt something wet and stinging; Aramis had the handkerchief again and was cleaning the blood from three small, neat sutures, clustered at the deep end of the crescent-shaped slice in his arm. When had...? Oh.

There was a twinkle in Aramis' eyes as he traded the handkerchief for a bandage and wrapped D'Artagnan's arm. "They say men and women can't truly be friends—"

"Yeah," said Porthos, "they say that about _you_."

"—but I tend to disagree. Henceforth I take as my doctrine, D'Artagnan and Madame Bonacieux, friends."

"Thank you," D'Artagnan said primly, rolling his sleeve down.

When Porthos stood up, the bedframe groaned in relief. "Right. Breakfast?"

Aramis bowed and gestured toward the door. "After you."

D'Artagnan caught Aramis' eye as they followed Porthos out. "Thank you," he said again.

Aramis just clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. "Hungry?"


End file.
